"Secrets of a Winter Swamp"

It was approaching the middle of December. The ground was covered with a good foot

of snow. A couple of weeks had passed since the closing of the gun deer season in

Wisconsin. It was time for me to get back into the woods and start exploring the video

possibilities for the upcoming spring.

I strapped on my snowshoes with the intentions of walking through the swamp towards

a bald eagle's nest that I had focused my cameras on the previous spring. The

temperature was hovering around ten degrees and the sun was shining bright. A great

day to be out. For me, scouting is one of the most enjoyable aspects of my work. Sure I

get excited when I actually capture wildlife on film, but to be free of all the heavy equipment and just go out

looking around is what I relish.

Outside of the occasional "dee-dee-dee" of food gathering chicadees and the mischievous chatter of distant

crows, the stroll through the wooded swamp was quiet. The eagle's nest was located on the western edge

of the swamp. It was only about 45 feet high in a somewhat isolated aspen tree. During the warm season I

would access it by conoeing through the marsh that bordered the swamp, but winter's frigid attitude had

changed things. The usually wet swamp was now frozen and blanketed with snow. The entangled quagmire

of trees and brush wrapped with vines and choked with tall grasses makes the swamp neary impassable

during the summer. But with the plants dying back and heavy snows flattening the vegetation, the swamp

was now open for exploration and inviting me in.

As usual I took my time. Carefully studying anything that might appear

out of the ordinary. From time to time I would come across some

tracks in the snow. A sign that there was some activity here, but

usually the tracks headed straight for the horizon. Their maker was

only passing through. It was shaping up to be a typical winter day

until I noticed a subtle shape tucked away in some alders. Normally

there's nothing unusal about such a mound, especially in the swamp

where they are everywhere. But this on struck me as somewhat

peculiar, even though it only rose slightly above the ground. Some

exposed grasses didn't fit the profile of most of the mounds in the

swamp. They were laying a bit different, so I turned to check it out.

Once there, I planted my snowshoe into the snow so I could lean in and take a look. And quite a good look it was!

As I leaned forward, a furry black head covered with a dusting of snow rose up from the ground to meet me.

For a second or two we stared at each other, a few feet apart. The bear seemed as surprised as I was. Although

it had no-doubt heard me coming, it chose to stay tucked in and hidden until I leaned over to look. Its teeth were

clacking nervously, a clear sign that it was scared. As I instinctively pulled back, the black bear's snow-dusted

head and concerned stare had already been etched into my mind. While backing away from the den, the bear

quietly buried its head and disappeared from sight.

At first I thought the bear was a male that had simply scuffed out a

shallow depression and plopped itself down for the winter, so during

the next week I strolled by a couple of times to take a peek. But all

was quiet until Christmas Eve when my daughter took one of her

friends out to see the den. They returned home with some exciting

news. "Dad, we heard cubs!" From that moment on the den had

taken on new meaning. My chance encounter a couple of weeks

ago involved a female black bear that was readying to give birth to

four cubs. As I studied the site more closely, I eventually realized

that I had stumbled upon a somewhat rare black bear ground nest.

The bear had scraped out a depression in the ground and piled

brush and grasses on top on it. She then scraped and chewed her

way in until a bowl had been formed around her where she could

hunker in for the winter.

For the next two months I ventured in from time to time and captured enough video to produce my first wildlife

documentary, "Secrets of a Winter Swamp." The last time I saw the bear family in the den was in the mid-March.

It was getting warmer and I knew they could be leaving anytime. The mother was already venturing out to

prospect for food. On day I saw her ripping open a rotting log nearby in search of anything insect related.

When I returned a few days later the bear family was gone and shortly after that, as if on cue, the frozen swamp

was changing. Winter was again succumbing to spring and the bear den would soon disappear under two

feet of water. The landscape was in transition, but the Mead Wildlife Area had once more provided an

unforgettable winter. One of solitude and secrets revealed. The best kind there is!